


The Sign in the Window

by dizzy



Category: Little Mosque on the Prairie
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 22:24:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/142373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dizzy/pseuds/dizzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sign on the window says that it's for sale, and the door is ajar so Fatima lets herself in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sign in the Window

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Delphi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/gifts).



The sign on the window says that it's for sale, and the door is ajar so Fatima lets herself in. The building seems empty, and she has the thought that even with another person in it that impression would linger. The paint on the walls is peeling, an ugly muddled brown color, and the tile on the floor is chipped. There's a layer of dust on a chair shoved against a wall and discolored spots on the ground where furniture clearly once was.

"Can I help you?" A voice calls out, followed by shuffling steps. An older man, tall and lanky with a suspicious gaze, looks her over. She can see the faint disdain there and it makes her posture stiffen.

She stalks around the room like she's analyzing it, like she belongs here. The man doesn't say anything to her. She's learned how far sheer force of will can get her. She's learned how to be good at standing strong all by herself. She's had to.

"Yes," she says, breathing in all of the confidence and stubbornness that she doesn't feel, and plunging ahead. "I would like to place an offer upon your building."

*

Fatima is tired. She's sick with a head cold hat she can't shrug off, but she has no time to let sickness dictate her schedule. She spends every day up to her elbows in paperwork.

This is not what she envisioned for herself. Somehow, she'd seen it magically falling into place. She'd seen herself in a kitchen cooking familiar recipes, greeting customers cheerfully. She hadn't realized a cafe would take so long to open and that so much had to go into it. The process of buying the building required knowledge she didn't possess. Long hours reading, trying in vain to comprehend all of the steps that had to be taken, trying to make sure she wasn't forgetting anything or doing it incorrectly.

She's in the park, notebooks and catalogs strewn across the table so she can study while Jemal plays a few feet away, small wooden trucks tumbling against each other to a soundtrack of vehicular noises he makes. She keeps an eye on him while she studies different pictures of diner chairs.

The voice that disrupts her makes her startle.

"Ma'am? Oh, are you - you're the woman that just bought that old hardware store, aren't you? From Mr. Henderson!”

Fatima's expression turns sour. "He is a horrible man!"

"He wasn't anyone's favorite," the blonde woman laughs. "The way he'd yell! My husband would drive an hour away to go somewhere else... and trust me, that’s probably why he went out of business."

"This is no surprise to me," Fatima declares.

"I'm Sarah Hamoudi," she says, sitting down without invitation.

"Hamoudi?" Fatima's surprise is obvious, but the woman speaks right over her.

"My husband owns a construction company... he knows a lot about opening his own business,"

"Momma!" A dark haired girl runs up to her, grinning ear to ear. "Momma, Anna's here - can I go to the mall with them?"

"Rayyan, you said you'd help me-"

"I will, Momma, I promise, but they're going to the _mall_!"

"Fine, but make sure she knows you need to be home by six," Sarah says, but Rayyan is already running off. Sarah sighs, looking at Fatima. "Enjoy him while he's young. You know, I haven’t seen you at the Mosque…"

“You have a mosque in this town?” Her surprise is evident again.

“Well, we meet in someone’s basement right now, but…” Sarah begins to explain the prayer meetings, the small operation.

Critique is on the tip of Fatima's tongue, criticism for the loose hair and the Western clothing, but she bites it back. Fatima's only been in Canada for a few months, her only conversation comes from her toddler son. This woman is offering kindness and conversation to her, and she feels an unfamiliar sensation - she's grateful.

*

Despite the exhaustion that is a constant companion she's found that the work she immerses herself in provides an odd sense of relief. She welcomes the nights when her head hits the pillow and sleep claims her before loneliness can.

Mornings are not so unpleasant, though. Jemal wakes early and comes to her, toddling on chubby legs, clutching at her. She rises and dresses and makes him breakfast, sitting at the table. She does not resist when he clambers onto her lap, free and easy with his affection. She treasures it, because she knows that the years will take this from her. He will grow, the roundness of childhood fading, he'll turn into a man. He'll grow strong and tall, with his father's eyes, and if she is blessed his father's kindness and gentle hands. He'll take a wife, and she hopes she's around to see it. She hopes she can provide for him and teach him to provide for himself.

She feeds him, accepting the mess for what it is. She'll clean the table and then clean her son, but for the moment she places him on the ground with his toys.

"Mama?" He looks up at her, face screwed up in what will certainly be tears if she doesn't stem them fast.

"Yes, son?" Her voice is stern, but he accepts it as fact and not chastisement.

He looks back down and something catches his eye, a flight of fancy that he follows, whatever had been upsetting him forgotten. She's not bothered by the abrupt ending to the conversation. It makes her smile to watch him explore without regard to consequence. It's a lesson she's learned from him.

*

The day the cafe opens, she's wholly unprepared for the town's response. She puts a proud smile on her face, pours coffee and recites orders to the cook that she's hired, staying out front the entire day to greet the people. She sees neighbors, people that she's come to know. Sarah, the woman from the park whose husband proved to be very fair and very skilled when Fatima approached him for the remodel of the building, and her daughter both come by. Fatima waves at them and offers a hearty greeting.

They are not all pleasant; the snarling man with the loud voice that she tries to send away, the hicks that stare at her hijab with confusion, but the money they spend has no prejudice and that's what she's concerned about. The plaguing thoughts of opening to dismal business, to proving no competition at all for the Mercy Diner, for abject failure and inability to put food on the table for her son, disappear like they were never anything but figments.


End file.
